What Happened To My Underpants?

We arrived in Israel on Wednesday, September 22, late afternoon. We then departed Israel on Wednesday, September 22, even later in the afternoon. "Where's our camera?" Kaitlyn asked, hoping I was hiding it somewhere, playing the old “let’s hide the camera so our girlfriend will freak out” game. "I don't know...what did you do with it?" I lovingly responded, knowing full well that I hadn't seen the thing since our arrival in Amman, three days before. After being pulled aside for a “random screening” (though I’m sure my cartoonish beard and arm full of various bracelets had nothing to do with it) by the Israeli authorities and subsequent twenty minute interrogation about my background, relationship with Kaitlyn, and reasons for entering Israel, we came to the very unfortunate realization that we had left our camera behind somewhere in Amman. We hopped back on the bus, back towards the Jordanian border, back through the contentious no-man’s-land between the two nations, and back into an expensive taxi for the 45 minute journey to Amman. Fortunately, we were staying with Elodie and Isabelle, two French girls living in Amman and who we met back in Dahab, Egypt, Kaitlyn’s newest friends and dive buddies. The camera, as it turned out, was in the trunk of the car of a friend of theirs, left behind after our first arrival. We both were very relieved of this news, happy our months of memories were still intact.

Aside from being exponentially more expensive than its neighbors, Jordan was one of our favorite places. Much to both of our surprise, Amman is a modern metropolis, with shopping plazas galore, law abiding drivers, and shining rays of progressive ideas abounding. It was here, at the crossroads of Arabia and modernity, that Kaitlyn was to find out the news that would forever change her life (not to mention set the tone for the rest of our trip!). On Monday, September 20, 2010, Kaitlyn Michelle Bagnato became Kaitlyn Michelle Bagnato, Esquire! On a stoop next to a small shop down a side street in Amman, complete with onlookers not sure what to make of the tears and simultaneous cheers and hugs, we found out that Kaitlyn passed the Florida Bar exam. After three years of arduous work and two months of nonstop studying and cramming (and a delight to be around throughout, of course!), her efforts have finally paid off. We bought a few cans of beer, gathered a bottle of wine, and headed back to our amazing flat near the French embassy in Amman to celebrate with our French friends.

After eight action-packed days in Jordan consisting of camping with Bedouins in beautiful Wadi Rum, exploring ancient Petra, canyoning to an amazing waterfall in Wadi Mujib, being driven through the country by our new German friends, floating in the Dead Sea, seeing Jesus’ baptismal site at Bethany-Beyond-the-Jordan, enjoying the small town feel of Christian Madaba and the big city feel of Amman, and discovering that a lawyer is now among us, it was time to hit the road again and head across the mighty and imposing Jordan River, the one-foot wide boundary between Jordan and Israel.

We passed through security without a hitch this time around, thankfully, and headed straight for Jerusalem. Having spent the better part of the past two months in or around walled cities, we were not terribly impressed or in awe of the Old City walls surrounding Jerusalem. But then, once inside, we both felt a certain degree of magic in the air. Though neither one of us have ever really been the crazy for religion, WWJD bracelet wearing type, there was still something sublime about being in Jerusalem, being in such a holy and austere place, where so much history and battles over belief have taken place. For me, the religion major and incessant spiritual seeker, Jerusalem has always been the cradle of faith, the eternal alpha and omega of all things God.

The Old City is divided into four quadrants, each with their distinct personality. The Muslim Quarter is awash in small markets like we have been in and out of for the past few months, with men selling various sundries for both locals and tourists. This quarter is distinctly Arab, where good deals can be had if you bargain correctly, and each seller proudly displays something that ties them to their Palestinian roots. Next is the Christian Quarter, with the dividing lines between the two quarters being completely blurred as the only thing that really changes is who the shopkeepers’ target audience becomes and crosses and rosaries begin to replace knockoff designer brand clothes and shawarma (like a gyro) stands. And the sad part is that everything still comes from the same place: China! Having also gone through decades of turmoil between Roman times, the Crusades, Byzantine rule, etc., most of the Old City isn’t as really “old” as many of the faithful would like to believe. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the beautiful edifice built atop the place of Jesus’ crucifixion and full of amazing artwork and antiquities in memoriam, is a very old building that has remained standing through all the surrounding conflict. However, inside the church there remains items that are perhaps more symbolic than actual remnants, such as several devotional pillars rumored to have been at Jesus’ feet during the crucifixion or a small cave area inside the church alleged to have been the first burial spot of Jesus. To the devoted, authenticity, I reckon, is not so much a matter of fact but rather a matter of faith. The Via Dolorosa, or Stations of the Cross, are marked along a pathway leading to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. With the city being virtually discombobulated several times over the past two thousand years, the layout of things has also obviously changed. We walked the Via Dolorosa, following along in the final steps of Jesus’ life, despite the likelihood of its historical inauthenticity, just like the thousands of tour groups and millions of other pilgrims that do each year. It was still a remarkable and surreal experience, being in Jerusalem, the place where it all happened, and walking in the footsteps of Jesus, even if they were just symbolic.


Joe at the Wailing Wall

 With numerous churches ,mosques, and synagogues around every corner, the entire Old City is a holy (and wholly) blur of spirituality. A third quarter, the Armenian Quarter, randomly enough, is quieter and seemingly more residential than the other parts. Why Armenian? Apparently, Armenia was the first to embrace Christianity and so were thusly rewarded with a place in the Holy Land. Despite the nomenclature and few Armenian mosaic shops, the quarter, adjacent to a large Greek contingent, feels less Armenian (whatever that means) and more distinctly Greek.

Dome of the Rock

Finally, the fourth quarter, the Jewish Quarter, has probably undergone the most changes through its history. What stands today is a very new, very clean, and very quaint neighborhood. With children running around in their little yarmulkes, women in their long skirts, and men in their stereotypical yet still cartoonishly long and curly side hair flapping underneath their large sable Russian hat looking things and black outfits, the Jewish Quarter felt surprisingly calm compared to its neighbors. The centerpiece of the Jewish Quarter is the Western Wall (or Wailing Wall) that is all that remains from the Second Temple and the object of much of their devotion. Men and women are divided to different areas of the wall where they can often be seen rocking back and forth in devotion, reading from their scriptures, praying, eating bagels with smears of lox (just kidding! Stereotypes are fun!) or writing notes to be inserted into the wall, messages to be delivered to God.

All in all, I would have to say that I was surprised about just how small it all was. I guess hearing Bible stories as a kid in CCD classes on Sunday mornings (before blurring it all out, of course) made it all seem like such a vast area. In reality, we covered it all with ease, from the place of the Last Supper outside the wall, to the Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock, to the Mount of Olives, the Garden of Gethsemane and Mary’s Tomb, all the way back with time to spare to walk the Via Dolorosa, barely breaking a sweat.

We never felt in danger during our time in Jerusalem, despite the abundance of armed soldiers running to and fro on a seemingly very important mission somewhere. I received an email from my mother one day that read something like this, “OMG Joey! I just saw on the news about the violence in Jerusalem! Please tell me you guys are okay!!!” to which I had to research whatever it was that occurred, since nothing seemed out of the ordinary or peculiar whatsoever. It turns out that an Israeli security guard killed a Palestinian, which led to some riots, and blah blah blah, the usual sort of stuff we hear about on the news all the time. The fact is that oftentimes, as is the case with everything I guess, the actual reality of the situation is far less dramatic or indicative than the media would have us believe. Nevertheless, we opted against venturing into the West Bank towards Bethlehem to see the Palestinian side of the Middle East equation because of all the peace talk negotiating going on at the time. The situation is tense. It has always been tense and it will probably always be tense. The fight is about so much more than land, so much more than politics, and so much more than religion. I’ll spare you a lengthy diatribe on the topic and instead tell you that I bought/made a t-shirt with the city of Jerusalem on the front and on the back, the simple word “coexist” formed with the religious symbols of the three major faiths constructing the c, x and t. Hopefully, one day it will happen...

After Jerusalem, we boarded a bus for the 45 minute ride to Tel Aviv, likely the most modern stop on our entire journey. Besides being ridiculously expensive, we both loved every aspect of the city. From the dog friendliness (they were even allowed in the indoor mall!), to the young professionals, to the walkability of the city, to the beautiful beaches, to the progressive ethos, it personally reminded me of San Diego, which as everyone knows, is the most fantastic city ever. There were no armed guards anywhere, no city walls, and worries whatosever...just the beach, the mall, and the three movies we got to see at the theatre (Go see Eat, Pray, Love!!!), another wonderful and peaceful end to yet another country.

We spent Monday evening at the Tel Aviv airport, waiting for our flight to Athens, Greece, and then onwards to Istanbul, where we currently sit and absolutely love so far. It’s now October, with two months abroad officially behind us. We’ve been in and out of ten countries so far and our passports are getting full. We look forward to a more relaxing October in Turkey before heading off to India and onwards to Southeast Asia! Please keep letting us know that you know we’re still alive (and are glad!) and we’ll be happy to write you back. Sometimes, it does get lonely all the way over here...!

Musings...

Things I have lost thus far along the journey: 10-15 pounds (I know, I know...it’s about time right?!?), several city maps, full water bottles, and sodas, my freaking Iphone, and, believe it or not, somehow I’ve managed to lose three pairs of my own underpants...

I had no idea how many black Jews there are...

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“Into the Middle East We Go...”

It's been almost three weeks since we ascended Mt. Kilimanjaro and, subsequently, that same amount of time since our last blog post. To all our loyal followers, we apologize for the delay in your vicarious travels and hope you will forgive us for stranding you at the bottom of the mountain! The climb and recuperation period that followed definitely took it out of us! The past few weeks have certainly been eventful, taking us through four countries and one almost-country en route to our current locale, Amman, Jordan. In order to bring you up to date as efficiently as possible, and unfortunately without the theatrics of a movie montage to help speed things along, I will do my best to sum up the past few weeks and fast forward you to where we are today.

Zanzibar

After spending an extra day in Moshi to get our heads back on straight after the climb, we hopped on a bus back to Dar es Salaam, a good nine hours complete with some amazingly awful Nigerian cinema, fully expecting to be able to get right on a ferry to whisk us away to the enchanting shores of Zanzibar. Unfortunately, the last ferry allegedly departed hours before our bus arrived, leaving us and a group of 7 or 8 other fellow travelers stranded in Dar as nightfall approached. Dar es Salaam, much like many other African cities, is not known to be a particularly cheery place for foreigners at night, notorious for muggings, robberies and other unreported crimes in what Wikipedia describes as one of the least policed countries in the world. So, as you can imagine, we were all quite anxious to seek refuge as soon as possible. We all put our heads together and found our way to an area listed in the Lonely Planet with several budget options (and also in a superbly shady area of town) and luckily found some availability.

We awoke the next morning and walked down to the harbor, managing to avoid the endless touts. After a two hour plus journey through nauseating Indian Ocean waves, we finally arrived on the shores of Stonetown, Zanzibar. After clearing through customs (Zanzibar fancies itself as being separate from Tanzania, though Tanzania would never part with such a treasure) we were greeted by the most taxi drivers ever gathered in one place ever, eager for our business. We decided on the can't be beat price of a man named Carlos in a minivan who then also managed to win the business of two Danish men, though at a rate twice that of what we were to pay. Carlos told us to "be cool" about this fact, to which we obliged in fear of losing our sweetheart of a fare. After a 45 minute ride through the Zanzibar interior, we emerged at our final destination, Nuwinga, on the north of the island. After driving down several dirt roads, we quickly realized that this was perhaps not the tourist hotspot we had imagined, even though the guide book referred to this part of the island as the most lively. Despite this, we soon were enraptured in the simple, untouched beauty of Zanzibar.

Men still went out in their fishing boats to catch squid, barracuda, and tuna not far offshore while boats were repaired along the beach and children kicked around a soccer ball. Meanwhile, the women made quite a rucus chanting as they formed a circle in the shallow water with a net collecting sardines, later to be divided among them. The water was a striking aqua with magnificent shells strewn throughout the white sands. The place was simple and beautiful, though the prices were also staggering thanks to its remote location and influx of high-end resorts encroaching. We easily occupied ourselves (by doing absolutely nothing) for three days there, even coming across some of the British group we hiked alongside on Kilimanjaro, hanging out and drinking with them in between patting ourselves on the back for a job well done.

It was then time to head back to Stonetown to take in some of the historic city and enjoy a beautiful sunset at Africa House, a luxury hotel, before catching our ferry back the following afternoon. A mix of Arab, Indian, and African cultures and ethnicity, it truly was a fascinating place. We arrived back to Dar by another long and treacherous ferry ride and decided to find another dodgy hotel room for part of the evening as our flight to Cairo departed at 6:00 a.m.

We will never forget our time in Tanzania, the people, the adventures, the beauty. Our hefty $100 visa, exclusively for Americans, was definitely worth it.

Cairo

We arrived back in Cairo with twelve hours to kill before our overnight bus ride to Dahab, a backpacker’s refuge along the Red Sea at the southeast portion of the Sinai Peninsula. A girl we met weeks before said that Cairo is the type of place that grows on you and that after your third visit, you’ll begin to feel an affinity towards it. At first, this showed signs of actually being accurate though it didn’t take too long for Cairo to once again rear its ugly head.

Upon landing at the airport, instead of paying an inflated taxi rate into the city, we decided to opt instead for an adventure aboard a city bus. The bus was packed, Kaitlyn was the only female present and men were literally clinging to the door of the bus with one foot hanging outside while the bus driver honked his way through self-created driving lanes. It was definitely quite the experience! Fortunately, Kaitlyn made the acquaintance of an English speaker who helped us determine when it was we were supposed to get off, definitely our first breath of fresh air in regards to the people of Cairo...for once, someone not trying to screw us or expecting some baksheesh in exchange for assistance! We arrived downtown and immediately headed across the Nile to a Chili’s restaurant to recharge our culinary batteries after the drab cuisine of Tanzania. After chips and salsa, bottomless diet coke and a quesadilla explosion salad, Kaitlyn was once again happy (as was I after having enjoyed in the chips and salsa and my chicken finger basket). We next sought out a Fedex to ship back some goods we bought in Tanzania but had an incredibly difficult time in locating the place. Once we did, it was closed, of course, though the door was open and the men inside were seemingly working. Oh Cairo...

The time soon came for us to board our bus to Dahab. Sitting in the front seats with an incessantly smoking driver who blares his radio with the soothing sounds of Arabian music (basically, people yelling loudly) going through the heavily disputed lands of the Sinai Peninsula with checkpoints every few hours in the middle of the night, does not really afford one a stellar opportunity for a good night’s sleep. Furthermore, the random checkpoints, seemingly set up for no reason whatsoever as an Egyptian gingerly boards the bus to look around (for what, I’m not sure) and then checks or doesn’t check everyone or only a handful of people’s passports, is not a great example of government efficiency. Despite the length of my beard now giving me the appearance of a Jewish rabbi, we managed to get through them and arrived in Dahab some twelve hours later.

For those of you that may not know Kaitlyn that well, two plus days of constant travel through the Arab world without showers and with inconsistent sleep does not make for a happy girl. I have now learned this lesson and have been warned to adjust all future travel plans accordingly!

Dahab, Egypt

Dahab, as it turned out, was just what the doctor ordered, a respite from the road and from one another. We decided to try out scuba diving, one of Kaitlyn’s highly anticipated endeavors on the trip. The Red Sea, the saltiest body of water containing life, is virtually like a crystal clear aquarium. Beaches, there are none, but rocky shores leading out to an abundance of coral reefs are aplenty. Having never even snorkeled before and blessed with the buoyancy of an awkward giraffe, I was uneasy, but after much coaxing by Kaitlyn, I was willing to attempt scuba diving though unsure as to my capability. To start our diving class, we spent the first evening watching a few educational videos from the 1980s and completing some homework. No problem...I like to learn. The next day we reviewed the materials with the three others in our group, a British fellow and two French girls living in Jordan, and our instructor, Elvira, a Spaniard. Elvira then went over some of the exercises we were going to do in the water that afternoon and how to put on our equipment and prepare for our first underwater experience. After putting on our wetsuits and preparing our tanks, it was time to head to the water. First drill: submerge yourself with the regulating device and get used to the underwater environment, breathing through your mouth. “Okay,” I said to myself, “no problem.” Unfortunately, this is as far as my jaunt into the enchanting underwater world takes me. I gave it the old college try but could not handle this first and basic prerequisite. Aside from freaking the hell out about being underwater, unable to touch the bottom, I also couldn’t grasp the concept of constantly breathing through my mouth and into this gigantic mouthpiece of a foreign object lodged into my teeth. Apparently, I am quite the gagger. There I was, grasping for air, bobbing up and down trying to surface like a drowning bearded camel, thus ending any future hopes of finding sunken treasures in the depths of the ocean.

Kaitlyn, however, took to the seas like an otter, sinking right down to the bottom and joining the others in the circle of success while I floundered at the top trying to keep the basic snorkel in my mouth for more than five seconds, managing to sink under from time to time to watch the others perform their underwater drills without me. Finally, it was time for a lunch break. I was told the others would be swimming away and then back to shore and that I was welcome to join alongside them, snorkeling my way atop them like a clubbed seal just holding on to dear life. “No thank you,” I quickly replied and gathered up my stuff, content to walk back to the dive center to meet them.

That was the extent of my diving career. Kaitlyn, however, continued on with the three day course, spending ten hours a day at the dive center or in the water, learning the ins and outs of diving. She passed the certification test of course on her first try and now looks forward to future dives in Thailand and Indonesia. While she was off with her fancy diving and new friends, I explored the rest of Dahab. It is a small place, with virtually nothing outside of the strip around the water’s edge. House-like structures sit within the interior, unfinished buildings lying vacant as if the builders just vanished. Most of the land is owned by Bedouins, a concept that makes me laugh considering that the very definition of a Bedouin is one who aimlessly wanders about. All along the water’s edge are Bedouin owned “camps,” backpacker friendly (cheap) hotels that cater to the traveler and restaurants where it is expected for you to sit and lounge there for hours, soaking up the sun without a care in the world. Having experienced all this, it was easy for us to stay here for longer than anticipated, lounging about, enjoying the food and the otherwise extremely chilled out atmosphere. Ironically enough, with all these Westerners in their bikinis, enjoying their cocktails and otherwise pleasurable experiences, some 800 yards away across the Red Sea lay Saudi Arabia, the complete antithesis of everything going on around us and one of the great ironies of the trip so far. After five days of rubbing it in the Saudis faces, it came time for us to get back on the road and head towards our next adventure, Jordan.

Jordan

We once again packed onto an Egyptian bus headed towards the border with Israel and chock full of more checkpoints. Our original plan was to take a ferry directly across the Red Sea and into Aqaba, Jordan, but were told that the ferry service was expensive and otherwise very unreliable. Instead, we opted for the bus to do a land crossing through Eilat, Israel, and onwards into Jordan. This whole area of the globe, this portion of land adjacent to the Red Sea, is a fascinating place, with Egypt, Israel, Jordan and Saudi Arabia seemingly located within 75 miles of one another, clearly able to see one another’s lands. We approached the border, Taba, Egypt, and had to get off the bus and walk the rest of the way through customs and onwards across the border, thus beginning Kaitlyn’s first internal freakout as we headed into hostile territory. Young Israeli teenagers, fully armed with machine guns, were now the scenery as we were ushered into our place in the long line through security. Once it was our turn to pass through the first checkpoint, I, of course, got singled out as my passport was taken by the security forces for what I assume was further inspection, despite my increasingly Jewish appearing beard. After a quick swab of my passport and electronic devices, I was clear to go ahead to the next area and get a visa stamp. I was hoping for a more thorough interrogation (and may just get it when we go back across the border) but we were both free to go ahead into the tiny jut of Israeli land along the Red Sea, Eilat, where we quickly got a taxi to take us the few kilometers to the border with Jordan. After paying our exorbitant exit tax to leave Israel, we once again walked across the border into a seeming ghost town, where the Jordanian customs agents had to be awoken from their slumber to give us our Jordanian visa stamps, a world away from the scene at the opposite border. We met a British fellow at the border named John and shared a cab into downtown Aqaba where we spent the afternoon and evening.

The next day we were picked up by a Bedouin man named Obeid to be taken to his camp inside Wadi Rum, the picturesque desert a little north. John came along with us on the trip and we also shared the camp with a German couple. After a four hour tour in the back of a truck through the desert landscape, we finally headed back to our camp for the evening, though Kaitlyn and I were spent after the first twenty minutes of what I’m sure were quite remarkable – but seemingly similar – rock formations. We camped under the stars in the middle of the desert with Obeid and his sons, the Germans, and John, eating a Bedouin prepared dinner (chicken cooked in a pot on coals and buried in the sand) and drank some tea as we watched the boys dance and sing Arab pop songs into the wee hours of the night before heading back into our tent. It was definitely a beautiful experience, despite the cost and obviously tourist focused endeavor!

The next day we all packed into a rental car the Germans had and headed north towards Wadi Musa and one of the new seven wonders of the world, Petra. After finding a place to stay, we excitedly headed into the site. Walking through the canyon-esque “siq”, we soon came upon the main entrance into the ancient city as the picture perfect Treasury appeared beyond the curve. Made famous in pop culture by Indiana Jones, Petra is a series of beautiful red cliff rocks inhabited by the Nabateans before Roman times. They carved amazingly elaborate facades into the rocks for purposes still unbeknownst to me as they literally seemed about 20 feet in depth, hardly enough room inside for much to really go on. We hiked all through the ruins and climbed to the Monastery, another striking edifice overlooking the ruins below. It was a long day of hiking and climbing through the heat but well worth our efforts. The German couple stumbled across a friend while inside Petra and we all went out to dinner afterwards. The next day, we tagged along with these new Germans (who had a rental car) and John, and drove along the Dead Sea, the lowest point on Earth, en route to Wadi Mujib, dubbed “Petra with water.” We hiked in the canyon along a stream until we came upon an impressive waterfall, complete with random Arab men swimming about in tiny shorts and underpants, leaving little to the imagination. It was an incredibly fun experience. We then drove north, graciously being dropped off by the Germans inside the town of Madaba, a town laden with Christian mosaics throughout and our chosen destination for the evening as they continued onwards to Amman. With a one-third Christian population and referred to as the wine capital of Jordan, it was high on Kaitlyn’s list of must-sees. After buying a bottle of Mt. Nebo wine, we settled in for the evening, once again alone, without John and without the company of Germans. We were extremely fortunate to have made the acquaintance of so many good people traveling through Jordan as this is the most expensive country we have been in and having free transportation definitely helped to keep costs down (and the fun up)!

Yesterday, we hired a car for half the day, first stopping at a friend of the driver’s, where we were invited inside to eat some very traditional Bedouin food, to which I repeatedly declined. But Kaitlyn eventually gave way and dug in, much to their delight. Afterwards, we were back en route to our chosen destinations. First stop was Mt. Nebo, the place where Moses died after looking out to see Jerusalem. Unfortunately, much of the site was closed due to restorations. Then we headed to Bethany-Beyond-the-Jordan, the baptism site of Jesus, where we arrived just in time to have a very quick tour before closing time. However, the site seemed to lose its spiritual essence as we were hurriedly pushed through by our mandatory guide. Lastly, we made it to the Dead Sea for a swim and the surreal experience of effortless floating while the sunset behind us.

Driving up and down through the hills and barren landscape of this area, dotted with Bedouin camps, grazing sheep, and shepherds tending to their flocks, it’s crazy to think that not too much has changed in so many thousands of years. The lands, literally and figuratively, are amazingly biblical, filled with so much history and contention around each and every corner. We will soon head to Jerusalem, the holy of holies, where I’m sure we will be overcome by the brevity of it all. We are having an amazing and surreal time and will try to keep the updates more frequent. Thanks for following along with us on the journey!

Musings...

Check out the “What did we just eat” tab for some updated meals. Also, pictures are almost completely updated so be sure to get a visual of everything we’ve experienced by clicking on the “Look at us doing fun things” tab!

Jordan is truly an amazing country. Drivers actually stop at red lights, there are actually some red lights, they even have radar guns to stop speeders, we don’t feel like everyone is trying to screw us over in some way, and the people are genuinely nice. It really does seem like a country, surrounded by so much chaos and disorder, that manages to march to its own beat and have some civility, progress, and growth, a testament to King Abdullah, the bizarrely omnipresent king whose image is plastered on every corner, an oddity for such a Western, non-dictator ruler.

Pole, Pole!

I don't hike, I've camped maybe one time before, and the highest I've ever been is when I went to Amsterdam in 2005. I don't know what convinced me that climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro at 19,334 feet over six days of hiking through various environments and camping was a good idea. Nevertheless, we embarked on the endeavor about a week ago, completely unsure of what was to come...


We arrived in Moshi, a small town at the foot of the mountain, after an all-day stay inside the Cairo airport followed by an overnight flight into Dar es Salaam where I promptly had a mini-freakout over the fact that we were actually in "real" Africa, a hurried cab ride to the Ubungo bus terminal where we managed to evade the swarms of scammers outside the terminal and get to our bus of choice, the Dar Express, luckily got a ticket for the next bus out of town and towards Moshi, an eight-hour ride through the surreal African landscape. Kaitlyn, in all her tribal glory, loved every second of the journey, waving to the various villagers as we passed by, smiling back at them, taking it all in while I went in and out of disheveled sleeping positions beside her. A man gets up from his seat on the bus, stands in the middle, and proceeds to give the captive passengers a thirty minute presentation in Swahili on each of the various soaps, toothpastes, and other cleaning products he individually takes out from his bag. Then came our first African "rest stop" as the bus pulled over to the side of the road not far from a mud house structure (the obvious home of some innocent villager) while all the passengers exited the bus. Naturally having to relieve ourselves, we followed suit. All the men seemed to head towards one side of the wooded area while the women to the other. It was an epic outdoor pee extravaganza as everyone seemed to leave their mark outside this poor villager's home. And then it happened. As we re-boarded the bus, seemingly full once again, Snyder and I looked at each other and wondered where Kaitlyn was as the bus began to slowly move forward. Then out the window, running out from the depths of the woods, came a frantic Kaitlyn, worst nightmare almost coming true. We stopped and everything turned out okay, though everyone on the bus had a good laugh about it.

We finally arrived in Moshi and took a taxi to what I was hoping was a pre-arranged hotel room for us as part of our climbing package. The ambiguity in the situation stemmed from the fact that in researching for this part of the trip and coming across company after company with costs well into the $1500 range per person for the climb, I contacted some people through my Couchsurfing network and got a seemingly great recommendation for a man named Pasian Peter, whose fee was only $950, a deal too good to pass up. I contacted him and have spent several months remaining in contact with him trying to do my best to plan this climb. After wiring $400 to this random man in Tanzania in July as part of our deposit, I really had no idea if he was even a real person let alone going to actually carry through with our agreement. Sure enough, we arrived at the hotel and I tentatively mentioned his name, just hoping a reservation was made. It was, and he was even there, awaiting our arrival. He bought us each a beer and sat us down to give us a brief account of what to expect on our climb. The next day, he even took us around town to various contacts of his so we could rent needed equipment cheaply. He was not only legit but a really nice guy whose reputation and the recommendations of travelers like us were the only things that kept his business afloat.

After a day of rest and gathering supplies around town and en evening spent eating at an Indo-Italian restaurant and drinking beers, something we hadn't tasted in nearly a month through the Arab world, the big climb was finally upon us.

Pasian Peter picked us up at the hotel room at 8:30 in a dala-dala, a type of big van used to shuttle large groups of people, and we set off towards the gates of the Machame Route of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Along the way to the mountain however, the first signs of trouble appeared as we had to pull over twice. Kaitlyn was sick. But she was determined to move forward with the climb, stomach problems be damned. We arrived at the gates and met up with the rest of our team. For the three of us, we had two guides, a cook, and seven porters, a team of ten Tanzanian men who would be with us for the next six days. After paying the exorbitant park admission fee of $600 something just to get in the park (already a part of the previously mentioned $995 total), we started our what would become, endless procession up the world's highest free standing mountain.

About six hours later, we arrived at our first camp site, exhausted and wondering what we had gotten ourselves into. Our tents were already set up, complete with sleeping bags and floor mats in place. We eagerly went inside and collapsed on the ground. Moments later, Baracka, the head porter, a 21-year-old who appeared to have some sort of bullet hole indentation in his forehead and whose English was limited at best, appeared with two bowls of piping hot water and some soap for us to wash ourselves and tidy up from the day's hard work. "A nice touch," I thought to myself. Then popcorn and tea were served as a little snack. We were able to rest for an hour or so, get a hold of our bearings and then Baracka came back with dinner, served atop a red and white blanket, as he meticulously placed the silverware side by side, the bowls and plates as well, and then the various condiments. First came the soup, a "fish soup" apparently, much to my dismay, though as it turned out, my favorite source of sustenance. Then came a second course, a bowl of assorted vegetable mushiness served alongside steamed rice. "Way to go Joe!" I applauded myself on a job well done as we all progressed to eat it all and enjoy our first evening spent on the slopes of Kilimanjaro.

The following days went on in much the same manner. Awaken at 7:00 to the sounds of our porters rumbling outside the tent, eat some breakfast (scrambled eggs and toast with some fruit most of the time) and drink some tea, pack up our bags inside the tent, and get in line as we began the long day's trek once more up the mountain to some destination point unknown but never "very far" as our guides optimistically yet incorrectly always asserted. Our porters and the porters of other hikers soon passed by us, somehow carrying bags and backpacks and other heavy supplies atop their heads as they brushed by us at incredible speeds and we stood out of breath to the sides in amazement at their mobility, strength and balance. "Jambo" (hello) they would all say to us as they breezed by with a smile on their face, "Pole Pole," Swahili for "slowly, slowly," the ubiquitous creedo for the climb up. We would undoubtedly reach our camp, always exhausted and always in doubt about the next day's efforts.

On the fourth day, after arriving at our camp before sunset, we were told we were going to be woken up at 11:00 p.m. to drink some tea and eat a snack before embarking on our final ascent to the summit and begin what would become 13 hours of nonstop hiking. Needless to say, none of us were very excited about the prospects of hiking in the middle of the night up this gigantic mountain in the bitter cold, unable to really see what was in front of us or the type of terrain we had to battle, yet it had to be done if we wanted to reach the summit. We set off, one by one, following our guide "Tino," a Masai man, the soft-spoken leader of our group. "Sistah, you okay?" he would often turn around and ask Kaitlyn, always the first one of us to lead the pack. He knew she had an upset stomach for most of this endeavor and wanted to make sure she could still forge ahead. "And your friend?" he inquired to her on my behalf for some reason. We had to stop at several points along the mountain for bathroom breaks, to catch our breath and to drink some needed water. We were ascending some 1200 meters in this short period of time, a potentially dangerous undertaking for us very amateur mountaineers. Tears were shed and serious doubts were cast as we each struggled upwards. More than once the prospects of turning around and heading back to camp seemed to be a better alternative than continuing on through the hell we were in. But Tino would not have it. He believed in us and pushed us ahead. "Ain't no mountain high enough..." and Kanye West's "Stronger" kept playing through my head. "Ya'll probably won't make it," echoed constantly in my mind, motivating me to go further and further if only to prove to Kaitlyn's dad that I could make it and, in turn, could do anything I put my mind towards doing. The sun slowly began to rise from the horizon at our backs and the top of the mountain seemed further and further away. We buckled down one last time mustering up whatever strength we had left and forged ahead. At around 7:30, we took our last steps upward and finally reached the summit of the beast we had been battling. We jubilantly hugged one another and took a view downwards at what we had accomplished. Unfortunately, however, this was not THE end. This was merely Stella Point, a feat in and of itself, though not Uhuru, the absolute peak at the rooftop of Africa. After drinking some water and forcing down an energy bar, we forged ahead for the hour plus walk further ahead towards Uhuru. The altitude began to take its toll on each of us as Snyder began talking all crazily and I began to feel dizzy. Glaciers were all around us as we trekked through this bizarre landscape atop the world. Emotions soon overcame each of us as I began thinking about everything we had accomplished and how far we had come. I started thinking about my dad and what he would think about what we had just done. I thought about Kaitlyn and how she fought through her stomach problems, readily smiling and "Jambo-ing" every porter that we passed by despite being ill, about her strength and determination, about our future together and how proud I was of her and of us. We had finally done it...we had reached Uhuru, 19,334 feet high, and we had done it all together, every step of the way.

There is no way to fully describe the sense of accomplishment that comes with climbing a mountain. Sitting atop there, taking it all in, really put things into perspective about how far we have already come on this trip together and how lucky we are to be here doing this. With only one month behind us and already a lifetime of memories made, the next four months are sure to only get better and better. Thank you to everyone for reading this and following along on our journey with us. Thank you especially to the Bagnatos for last minute scrounging around to make sure we had the right medications to make sure we didn't contract malaria or get altitude sickness on this leg of our trip. We couldn't have made it to the top without you!

We are now off to Zanzibar for some much needed rest and relaxation. Pictures will be posted soon from the past few weeks so check back in the next few days!

Musings...

Tanzanians, believe it or not, are cleaner than Egyptians. They have trash receptacles on the street and the streets aren't littered in garbage. Good for you Tanzania!

Having said that, it also seems plenty fine to just walk down the street here, openly picking your nose. So, when in Rome....

Snyder got altitude sickness on the mountain. He had to be carried down the mountain on a stretcher by the porters. This is one of the greatest ironies of my life...the triathlete, hiker and camper extraordinaire has to be carried down the mountain while I, the tv watching loafer, climbs up and down triumphantly.

Where did we relieve ourselves on the mountain? In a five by five wooden house-like structure with a rectangle hole in the ground. Sometimes, people miss, which is unfortunate for everyone.